Words and power

           The words and the stories ripen inside me.  They dance and sway, skitter across my consciousness until finally they take shape and start to grow.  When they reach a certain point they spill out like juice spurting from a overripe orange when you pierce its skin.  I knew this once, that words were trying to escape through my fingers, but I had forgotten it.  The knowledge got lost in the years of trying to be a good wife,  making sure my children knew they were loved, develop my career and keep my sanity in midst of the unfolding chaos of life.  No wonder I forgot that I have something to say.  But now that the flurry of activity is dying down; husbands and I have long since parted ways,  the children are loved into adulthood, my career has taken root,  and the chaos has ceased its chatter, the memory is returning.  The familiar feeling of fullness which is only relieved by the actual act of putting pen to paper or fingers to keys is back and recognizable.  I know what I need to do, that very thing which I have for so long avoided; open the channel and let it flow.

                  These words are the record of my journey to get to a place deep inside myself where I rarely go.  When I stand in this place and listen to the silence,  I know my power and love myself.  When I stand in this place in the center of my being,  I am enough.